


Ballot Box

by sungabraverday



Category: Original Work
Genre: 2010 UK Election, Elections, Fierce Ladies Being Fierce, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sungabraverday/pseuds/sungabraverday
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's election night 2010, and the polls have closed. Miranda Carling just never expected that the few hours of waiting for the results would be the most agonising part of the whole process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballot Box

**Author's Note:**

> Originally for an assignment for my Creative Writing class. My political inclination almost certainly bleed through, for which I apologise. Any inconsistencies with how British elections are actually run is purely my fault, but having watched the last round of elections and consulting with my very British father, I hope they aren't overly glaring.

“And that’s it, ladies and gentlemen, polls are now closing. If someone could mind the doors, and we can get to the counting…"

The returning officer continued her speech, but Miranda stopped listening. This was it, the moment she had been working for weeks, months, years even. She had been fighting tooth and nail through party meetings and selections, long before the election even began. It could be victory now, or it could be the end. There was nothing left to do.

She couldn’t relax though. As the first ballot box was carried into the room, her stomach clenched with fear. What if it all came to nothing? What if all those hours were just a waste of time?

The returning officer ushered Miranda and her four opponents from the room, gesturing to a small side room to the town hall, outfitted with several uncomfortable chairs and a television set, tuned to the BBC.

It wasn’t strange company, for all the cruel words that they had thrown back and forth over the past few weeks.

Randall spoke to Charlene in the corner, both long shots to win, more interested in the overall election results or building their way to a political career than their own constituency. They were both nice enough, if you could stand Oxbridge superiority – and Miranda couldn’t. Only she and John Keith hadn’t studied at the big two, and even then, York wasn’t so far off the ultimate achievement. It was a token of how fortunate she was that she had even obtained a degree, but the rest of them took it for granted.

The incumbent, John Keith wandered over to talk to her, and she pulled up her inner reserves of tolerance. “Miranda, love, how are you feeling?” He smiled at her in a way that was probably meant to be sympathetic, but mostly just felt contemptuous.

She smiled back out of duty. Show no weakness; never let them smell your fear. “I’m quite fine, thank you. It’s remarkable that the election has gone by so quickly. It feels like just yesterday since the party announced my candidacy.”

It was true, and even then, she hadn’t realised just how naïve she was being. It had swallowed her whole, and she was sure that she wasn’t the same Miranda as the woman who’d entered the race with some essential optimism and the desire to make a difference. She hadn’t expected the insults hurled at her for her body, her shoes, her hair, her policies, her education, and her children. She certainly hadn’t anticipated being called ‘love’ in a patronising tone hundreds of times by Keith and what had started to feel like every man she spoke to on the campaign trail.

Well, if Margaret Thatcher had been iron, then she could be steel. Never mind that she was a woman, never mind that her degree wasn’t from a school as illustrious as Oxford or Cambridge, she could win this race and she could be an MP and she could make them regret that they’d ever underestimated her.

“Time does seem to fly like that,” Keith said, and Miranda smiled again dutifully. He wandered off, and she breathed a silent sigh of momentary relief.

It didn’t last long. Miranda fiddled with her orange rosette, feeling increasingly uneasy. She sank into a chair, and watched as the exit polls came in from across the country. They were good, about what they were expecting, if not what they were hoping for.

Time passed slowly, as the clatter and chatter of the ballots being counted leaked through the building, and as the news repeated again and again the developing fortunes of the parties. It was like a time warp, and every second in it was a special kind of torture. Her nerves weren’t shaking, but she could feel them, each and every moment.

Around her the other candidates talked, bright and easy conversation that belied their own worries. Charlene sat beside her for a moment. “I never had a chance,” she said, “but you do. If you win, and I hope you do, I’m positive you’ll do a brilliant job. Much better than Keith.” They both glanced across the room at him, where he was talking to Gerald Stevens in animated tones.

Miranda’s smile was as tense as ever, but she meant it when she said, “Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Charlene stood behind her and squeezed her shoulders, and then bent down to whisper in her ear. “Relax. You’ve done everything you can now. Just wait.”

But that was the problem. Miranda couldn’t relax. Waiting was worse than campaigning, where at least she had something to do. This was just watching the clock and the television, and wondering what the future would hold.

Three hours went by like that, before the returning officer entered the room again. “We’ve only got a few more boxes to go, and then we’ll be announcing the winner. Another half hour, most likely.”

Miranda stood and paced, her heels clicking a familiar staccato rhythm, watching as the early results came in from across the country, matching what the exit polls had predicted quite neatly. She didn’t dare look at her own exit polls, but it seemed like things were going well for her party. She stood a little taller, and breathed in deeply. Maybe she had fought hard enough.

The returning officer entered the room again. “We’re done now. If you’d like to come with me, and we can make the announcement.”

Miranda directed a quick wordless prayer towards the ceiling as they were called out to the main counting hall for the announcement. She straightened her skirt, and plucked a tiny piece of lint from her jacket. She was as ready as she was ever going to be.

The returning officer lined them up in a neat row at the back of a small platform that she supposed could be called a stage, and picked up a microphone, beginning her announcement.

“For Charlene Fitzhew, Conservative Party: 3,648 votes.” A handful supporters applauded, and Charlene waved graciously for them.

“For Gerald Stevens, United Kingdom Independence Party: 302 votes.” A lone supporter, probably already well on his way to forgetting it all already, cheered raucously for a solid minute until a burly scrutineer escorted him outside.

“For John Keith, Labour Party: 22,158 votes.” Again, the cheering lasted for a full minute, but this time spread over fully half of the room. It was more than a thousand more votes than he had received last time, and they could taste victory. They quieted at the returning officer’s request, and she continued the announcement.

“For Randall Young, Green Party: 496 votes.” Randall beamed, and waved to a smattering of polite but unenthusiastic applause.

“For Miranda Carling, Liberal Democratic Party: 24,483 votes.”

It took a moment of silent calculation, and then the room began to react. A single surprised voice exclaimed, “She won!” Miranda smiled brightly, the first genuine smile in weeks, and her supporters cheered, drowning out the groans of the Keith camp.

“The Member of Parliament elect for Dunthorpe East is Miranda Carling, Liberal Democratic Party.”

The returning officer turned to face the candidates and beckoned to Miranda. She stepped forward, and pulled a small slip of paper from her jacket pocket.

“I would just like to say how grateful I am to be here today. To the volunteers of my campaign team, thank you for getting me here. To the candidates behind me, thank you for being worthy opponents. To the people of Dunthorpe East, thank you for voting for me. I am looking forward to serving you in Parliament, and to making sure that your voice gets heard. It has been a hectic three weeks, but I don’t regret it in the slightest. Again, thank you, and I will do you proud.”

All of the audience applauded, and Miranda turned back to her opponents, shaking each of their hands in turn. “Thank you,” she told each of them, “for making these last few weeks memorable.”

When John Keith answered with “the pleasure’s all mine, love,” she gave him the sweetest smile in her repertoire and said simply, “I’m not your love.” She moved on without another remark, a sense of personal victory complementing her electoral one.

She walked out the back door where there were a few people from the local BBC and the town papers, and even a war correspondent called in for elections duty. She gave a few quotes, virtually identical to her closing speech, the moment passing by in a haze of unreality. She waved them off after answering a few questions with stock answers, and got into the car that was waiting to whisk her back to her campaign headquarters for what promised to be a sleepless night.

Closing the car door behind her, she leaned her head against the window and let the emotions run through her. At the end of it, there was only one conclusion to be drawn.

Miranda Carling, MP. She liked the sound of it.


End file.
